


This Mask of Mine

by AineLavena



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-15 10:55:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3444494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AineLavena/pseuds/AineLavena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is basically a character study on Cullen's lyrium addiction and how he deals (or tries to deal) with it.</p>
<p>Set in Haven right after the Inquisitor meets Dorian, but before heading out to Redcliffe Castle for the In Hushed Whispers Quest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Mask of Mine

“Good job, men,” Cullen said. The weary men saluted him and began filing away back to the tents, keeping in formation until they thought he couldn’t see them and then breaking off to beeline for the tavern. Cullen couldn’t blame them. He _had_ been working them quite hard, but it was necessary. The news the Herald had brought from Redcliffe were unsettling to say the least.

He grabbed his things and headed wearily to the small, one-room cabin he’d been occupying since he arrived at Haven. He couldn’t say he wasn’t glad for the opportunity to be alone, but it also meant that he had now time to think, and overthinking never led to anything good.

Cullen had been absolutely confused when she’d come back from Redcliffe, followed not only by Lady Vivienne and Warden Blackwall, whom she had been asked to recruit, but also an elven rogue and a tevinter mage, which were definitely not on the plan. After arrival, the elven rogue had gotten it on herself to ‘improve morale’, by which she meant finding the most childish ways to annoy everyone on Haven and disrupt activities. Finding random animals on one’s belongings got old really fast, and the kitchen staff was absolutely furious at her sneaking in and stealing every edible material that was not nailed down. Cullen had never thought he’d very much prefer the Tevinter mage than an Orlesian elf, but Dorian had mostly kept to himself since he arrived.

Leliana had run a very thorough background check on the mage the moment the Herald had sent them a message informing them of the happenings at Redcliffe. It turned out this Dorian was exactly who he claimed to be: a political and social outcast, whose views estranged him from the rest of Tevinter. His lack of affiliation made it unlikely that he was working with anyone in Tevinter, and the information he had provided the Inquisition on Gereon Alexius turned out to be correct.

That made Cullen’s job all the more important. Having a hostile foreign magical force in Ferelden meant taking other measures. If Dorian was right that these Venatori cultists were obsessed with the Herald, then it was his job to prepare against any sort of contingency that might happen.

And that had meant gathering the best— and most willing— of his recruits, and train them with Templar abilities. Which, in turn, meant giving them lyrium. Cullen’s stomach turned at the very thought. He closed the door of his cabin behind him, and took a few seconds to rest his head against it, trying to control himself. The lyrium kit was waiting for him on top of his desk and he felt nauseous just thinking about it.

He turned around and flattened his back against the door as he braced himself to approach the desk. The small wooden box was so familiar he might lose control of himself, a momentary distraction and the muscle memory would kick in now as it always did during the battles. Block, parry, attack, twirl, keep your feet on the ground, watch your left side. Open the box, take the small capsule, prepare the contents. The mixed amount has to be just enough, the specifications on the lyrium amounts were strictly regulated by the Chantry but you always added a little extra, just a little. That extra something was the needed kick, the song that spread through your veins and pushed off the nightmares. You never realized how long it had been since your last dose, how much your skin itched and your muscles twitched and your brain buzzed and your teeth clenched until it was all gone, replaced by a sweet silence of body and mind.

The box was in his hands and he had absolutely no idea how it had happened. He fiddled with the clasp for a couple of seconds, realized what he was doing and set the box back on the table. Why were his hands shaking?

Rewarding and fullfilling as it had been, his work for the Inquisition had also been exhausting. It was hard to keep track of all the reports, the new names and faces, the training schedules, the supply lines, the building efforts and everything else that his position entailed when his head threatened to split open, when the memories of the lyrium whispered sweetly on his ear, so soft and yet loud enough to drown out any voices coming in from the outside. He felt perpetually embarrassed at having to ask people to repeat things twice, three times. He felt even worse because the people around him thought he understood; of course, he was busy, had a thousand things on his mind, it was to be expected every now and then.

He grabbed the box again, feeling the smooth polish on the wood. His thumb travelled slowly down the surface of the wood, tracing the contours of the stylized engraving on the lid, down to the small metal clasp. He lingered for a moment on it before teasing it open with a small flick. The click sounded fresh and satisfying and he gasped involuntarily at the sound.

The kit waited for him inside the case, a piece of familiarity that threatened to bring sense to the storm of confusion that had been everything since the explosion at the Conclave. What was wrong with just one small sip? He was about to hand out a similar kit to every single one of the twenty-three hand-picked soldiers that were undergoing Templar training. It was only fair that he try it out, just to make sure the quality of the lyrium was optimal. Bad lyrium, after all, would make the headaches worse rather than better.

How had it felt the first time he took lyrium? He tried to remember the sudden surge of power, the certainty that he could overcome anyone, _anything_. His body had pulsed with all the unexpected potential he was yet to unlock in himself, his mind freed of weights he hadn’t even known he was carrying. He’d been light, he’d been strong, he’d been the ultimate warrior.

And what was he now? Tired, broken, beaten, confused… there was nothing of that vibrant energy left in him. Maybe all he needed was a small sip, just a taste to remind himself of what he had been, to give himself the strenght to continue leading the Inquisition as an effective leader. He wouldn’t fall into addiction again. He was older, wiser, and he could control himself this time. Just the one sip, and then he’d go back to abstaining from lyrium like he’d promised.

“Commander?”

The train of thought he’d been following shattered along with the small vial that slipped from his hands and into the ground. He stared at it, unable to comprehend why it had been in his hand in the first place. There was a moment’s confusion until the door creaked open and he was snapped back to reality. He knelt down and began picking up the pieces.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

He looked up. It was her. Of course it was her.

“I was… inspecting the lyrium kits we’re going to give the recruits tomorrow morning,” Cullen said. Lame, so lame. But the Herald didn’t seem to be paying any particular attention to him. She was staring at the mess he had made on the floor.

“I… understand,” the she said.

“These men are professionals, Herald,” Cullen said. “I have personally trained all of them. You need not fear them.”

“I don’t… I trust you, Commander,” she said. “I’m sure you have done a good job training them.”

There was something about her tone that forced Cullen to snap out of himself and really look at her as she blankly pushed a piece of glass around the floor.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing’s wrong,” she said. “We received a letter from the Magister in Redcliff. Like Dorian said, it sounds like an ambush.”

In a moment, Cullen understood. He walked over to her and put a hand on her shoulder. She shuddered a the touch and took one step back. A deep red color crept to her cheeks as she looked down and began picking at a loose thread in her robes. It looked as though she had been picking at it for quite some time.

“I’m— I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to— I’m just tired. Cassandra’s been drilling me pretty hard.”

“I promise nothing like Val Royeaux will ever happen again,” Cullen said. The Herald looked up, her bright murky green eyes glassy with fear. “We will keep you safe this time. That’s a promise.”

“I appreciate it,” she said, but she sounded thoroughly unconvinced. “Leliana, Cassandra and Josephine are waiting at the War Table. We need to discuss what we’re going to do about this magister.”

“I’ll be right there,” Cullen said. “I’m just going to finish cleaning up this mess. Are you sure you’re fine?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “I just— I thought I could stop being the Herald for a moment. You don’t mind do you? I really am just tired.”

“No… no,” Cullen said. “You… you took me by surprise, that’s all. I thought, after what happened… Don’t mind me. I’ll see you at the Chantry then.”

The Herald nodded at him. She suddenly straightened up and her expression changed. The blank look on her face was replaced with a serene expression, and she smiled at him before leaving with a bright, reassured step. The Herald of Andraste. Somehow, it made him feel a little bit better to know that he was not the only one fighting, struggling to keep it together.

The Commander of the Inquisition.

Another pathetic lyrium addict.

It was time to act like it. Cullen finished picking up the pieces of broken glass from the floor and threw them into a bin, along with the beautiful, carved box. His gaze lingered on it for a second, five, twenty, the full minute. He hadn’t realized how fast his heart was racing, how loudly his mind buzzed at the thought of the wasted lyrium now being absorbed by the dirt floor of his cottage.

But he couldn’t linger. He had a meeting to attend to. A magister had just taken control of the mages in Ferelden, the Herald’s life was in danger and here he was, watching lyrium dry on the floor. He had duties, responsibilities. He had _chosen_ this. The first free choice he had made in a long time: to set things right, to fight for peace and stability across all Thedas.

His hands too were stained with the blood of all those people who had died at Kirkwall, with the blood of mages he had refused to listen, to understand, the people he too had driven toward desperate action through fear and mistrust. Lyrium _had_ helped make it better, quiet down the screaming of his conscience as he became a tool of oppression, as he turned a blind eye to Meredith’s tyranny, to Ser Alrik’s Tranquil Solution. He had known, even then, that ‘following orders’ was not a justification, but he had gone with it anyway. The lyrium sang to him, soothed him, hid his worries and misgivings behind a haze of calm and surgring energy.

He couldn’t go back to that life. He couldn’t go back to be that person. And the first step toward acquiring his freedom was to fight back the man he used to be. The man who still desperately clung to the idea that lyrium could give him any sort of comfort. The only comfort to be had was in a job well done, and that meant going to the War Room and figuring out a way to keep the Herald safe from the magister.

Cullen was halfway through the Chantry when he was intercepted by Knight-Captain Lennox, still in full Templar armor and followed by a group of three would-be Templars.

“Commander,” he said, saluting. “I’ve told our men to take it easy with the alcohol tonight. The hungover is not going to do their vigil any favours.”

“Good thinking, Knight-Captain,” Cullen said. “I know you men are nervous, but you should get a full night’s sleep too. It’s always embarrassing when a Templar recruit falls asleep halfway through the vigil.”

Lennox chuckled. Behind him, the recruits smiled weakly. They all looked as though they were about to be sick.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “The Vigil will be carried out in the cells under the Chantry. Our supplier has already delivered the crates.”

“Good,” Cullen said. “Excuse me, Knight-Captain, I’m going to a meeting and I’m already late.”

“Yes, sir.”

Cullen watched the Knight-Captain leave, followed by the recruits. Poor bastards. They had absolutely no idea the hell they had just agreed to. And he was being complicit in their destruction. Perhaps not now, but in ten, twenty years, as the lyrium slowly scratched their minds raw, they would curse his name. The lives saved and the battles won would not be enough to alleviate the screaming of muscles tensed into madness, the screeching of nails being dragged down their brains, the memories quickly slipping off. And was his fault.

He knew what he was doing to them, but like the Chantry before him, he had decided that the greater good was more important than the sanity of these men. Like the Chantry before him, he tried to find solace in the fact that they had willingly chosen this path, that he had explained the risks to them and still they had agreed. But it was a lie, a charade. No words could ever describe what lyrium actually did to you. Perhaps he was still that man, and his pretentions to nobility of spirit were nothing but a charade. What right had he to withdraw from lyrium, while willingly allowing others to start taking it?

The headache pushed at the back of his eyes, momentarily blinding him. When he came back to, he saw Cassandra standing outside the door to the war room, looking at him. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to bring himself into focus, like the Herald had done just minutes before.

“You know, Commander, you need to get that serious look off your face,” Varric said, emerging from behind one of the Chantry columns, his fingers stained black with ink. Cullen could make out a paper-strewn desk behind the dwarf. “It’s bad for your health.”

Cullen stared at the Varric for a couple of seconds, and without knowing why, he started laughing.

“You know what you desperately need, Curly?” Varric asked. “A hobby.”

“I’ll think about it,” Cullen promised. The laugh, however absurd and out-of-place it had been, served to get rid of some of the tension that had been welling up in his chest. It was a small thing, but it made all the difference and now he felt slightly less inclined to hate himself. He needed to be strong so people like Varric could go around cracking stupid jokes without having to worry about things.

Really, the dwarf wasn’t half as bad as Cassandra made him out to be.


End file.
